directions were perfect and we were soon on I-495 south in the HOV lane, which
became I-95 once we cleared the suburbs.

On the spur of the moment, we got off the interstate at the
Triangle/Quantico Marine Corps Base exit. Betty and I had rented a tiny, duplex
cottage in Triangle for about 8 months while I completed my enlistment in the
Marines in 1968-early 1969. It was our first home and the source of pleasant
memories. The current address is 4023 Bradys Hill Road. I think the street was
renamed from the rural route number it once had.

We had been in the Washington area several times in the
intervening years, but never had before taken time to have a look at our former
residence. Thanks to Betty’s memory of the bi-level cottage being quite close
to the main highway and a volunteer fire station (its siren used to wake us up
in the middle of the night), we were able to quickly find the wooden cottage.
We found that it has fallen into serious disrepair over the last 35 years. When
we rented the top floor, the cottage was in excellent condition. I think we
paid $80 a month in rent. The landlord, a retired carpenter whose last name was
Mountjoy, had built it himself and maintained it in good condition. He is
probably long gone by now.

We had some good times there. We stayed in touch with our
very nice, next-door-neighbors, Scott and Linda Hardy, for several years. They
were both Mormons from Utah. I had given him the Expert Rifleman Badge I had
earned in the hopes that he would qualify for it before shipping out to Vietnam
as a lieutenant in command of an infantry platoon. Our downstairs neighbors,
Ricky and Gail (I don’t remember their last names) were planning on returning
to Georgia as soon as his enlistment was fulfilled. Ricky was a truck driver in
the motor pool who had already put in his time in Vietnam.

Like virtually all the Marines I served with in those
troubled times, Ricky wanted to return to civilian life as soon as possible. So
stigmatized were uniformed servicemen in those emotion-fraught, anti-war days

that some of the guys with USMC regulation haircuts felt it necessary to wear
wigs when they went into the clubs in Washington on the weekend.

We briefly stayed in touch with a terrific guy who was my
boss in the base PR office, where I edited the weekly newspaper and wrote press
releases. He was Master Gunnery Sergeant Phil Kronenburg, one of the finest men
I’ve ever known. Nicknamed “Top,” he gave me a ride to and from the office in
his car every day. By providing me with free transportation, his kindness freed
up our 1965 Mustang for Betty drive in her commute to Stafford 20 or so miles
away, where she taught at Hartwood Elementary School. Betty and I enjoyed
several evenings with Top and his wife, Jeanette, at their home 10 or so miles
down the road in Woodbridge. On occasion, Top and I would check out one of the
base fleet’s Lightning sailboats for day sailing on the Potomac.

With his long service in the Marines, Top had learned the ropes
in how to work - or “skate” the often-baffling military system to his
advantage. He shielded his staff from many of the senseless inspections
required by our screwball company commander. I still laugh when I recall how
Top cleverly maneuvered his “Silver Skates” around the rear of a “CS truck” to
make it appear that he, too, had endured the mandatory tear-gas session that
was part of gas mask training. He had slipped into the platoon of guys at the
exit door, hacking and coughing with the best of us.

More importantly, he tried to protect us from the periodic call-ups
for troops with “ISO-MOS’s” (journalism training) to be transferred to “MAC-V”
(Military Assistance Command – Vietnam). In my case, my orders to ship out were shelved
when Top informed Marine Corps Headquarters that my right ankle had been broken in a freak accident
and
I was wearing a cast. That made me unfit for duty. By the time my ankle had healed, I was
"too short" to be sent to Viet Nam. I emphatically declined to extend my enlistment - a privilege extended troops
back in those days before the Bush-Rumsfield policy of "stop loss" that keeps military personnel in Iraq
long beyond their normal time.

Even though he was one of the “team leaders,” Top managed to
stay “in the rear with the gear” when just about everybody in the Quantico
Informational Services office was transferred to the Provisional Marine
Battalion in September, 1968. The battalion was quickly formed and sent into
Washington, D.C. to help put down the riots that raged there following the
assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.

I remember being issued a flak jacket and two clips of live
ammo for my M-14 rifle and sleeping in a big tent pitched in an inner city
park. I was assigned to a rifle squad that cruised the streets in a military
truck, serving as backup to a police car.

Several shots from a hidden sniper were fired in our
vicinity. Everybody in the squad but me were recently back from Vietnam,
awaiting out-processing. They all quickly and expertly rolled into the pavement
gutters while locking and loading their weapons on the fly. I was the last man
to react and then in what seemed like clumsy slow motion. It was my only time
under hostile fire. Although it lasted less than a minute and I didn’t fire a shot,
it is an indelible memory.

Our battalion was one of several Marine Corps and Army units
from nearby bases that were sent into action because of widespread burning and

looting of businesses on 14th Street and other parts of downtown DC.
The Marines have always put a lot of emphasis on public relations, the reason
the Quantico ISO office was largely emptied to support the Provisional
Battalion. I remember one captain promising that he would buy me a fifth of
Jack Daniel’s Whiskey if I could get a photo of one of his guys on the front
page of The Washington Post. (Another of life’s missed opportunities.)

Top was a smart man, with a great sense of humor and a
twinkling eye that never took authority too seriously. He had gone into the
Marines during World War II. I learned that circumstances had kept him in the
Corps even though he wanted out as much as I did. Every time his enlistment was
due to expire, there was a pregnancy, child in need of hospitalization or some
other expensive contingency facing his family. Consequently Top “shipped over”
so many times that he became trapped into going all the way to retirement.

He finally – and happily – became a civilian after 30 years
of service. He had been intent in enjoying life in a lakeside home in his native
New England and spending a lot of time sailing. Betty and I were distressed
when Jeanette wrote us that Top had died of a heart attack just a few months
after retiring. I hope one day far in the future to “gaze on heaven’s scenes
and find the streets are guarded by United States Marines” - commanded by Top
Kronenburg.

Another really good guy I worked with in the Quantico ISO
office was Gunnery Sergeant Louis Pescatore, who taught me a lot. Gunny had served
on Okinawa during World War II and was another career Marine who looked out
for his troops. He was the only Marine I knew who still favored the acceptable but
out-of-fashion Eisenhower jacket. He later retired to a PR job at the
Melbourne, Fla. chamber of commerce and I’ve regretted for years that I didn’t
stay in touch with him.

Others in that talented pool of military journalists
included Mike Franks, a razor-sharp Marine fit for any poster who preceded me
as editor of the Quantico Sentry. Another was Mike Barnes, who was editor
before Franks and later was elected to Congress. Others included George Upton,
a morose English major from Harvard; and Glen Destatte, an enchilada loving pal

from California who aspired to be a sportswriter for the L.A. Times (I never
did find him there despite several calls over the years). Glen took great pride
in never eating the free food served three times daily in the mess hall,
preferring to spend most of his modest pay on eating out – even if it meant
ironing his own clothes.

During our short stop in Triangle 35 years later, Betty and
I talked about those and other guys and also shared some memories about the
great enchilada dinners she cooked in the tiny kitchen that had Glen licking
the pan afterwards. We remembered good times with Top and his family, of
digging a small flowerbed by the mailbox, of planting bachelor buttons and of
rolling up big balls of snow in our tiny front yard after our first major
snowstorm. We piled up the snow to form a snow woman with huge breasts, causing
our affable landlord to joke that “I’d like to meet the lady.”

It was fun reliving those pleasant memories. But we were sad
to see that our first home (“be it ever so humble”) had become so dilapidated.
Other than a few new buildings and fast food outlets put up here and there in
recent years, Triangle is still a shabby, little military town right at the
main entrance to the base.

It was time to push on so we got back on I-95 and drove
south toward Fredericksburg, site of one of General Lee’s great victories in
the Civil War and once our favorite spot for hiking. What had been small towns, villages and vast expanses of
farmland when we were there are now expensive suburbia. New highways have
been built to serve the ever-expanding ranks of commuters to DC but growth in
traffic outpaces the road builders. Betty remembered that unlike today, when
rudeness rules so much of the road, truck drivers back in 1968-69 were models
of courtesy during her daily commute. But of course. What trucker wouldn’t be
nice to a beautiful blonde driving a snappy, 1965 Mustang?

Even though her Mustang on this drive was an
air-conditioned, 1998 model convertible, it was a long and boring drive down I-95. We
passed through the widths of Virginia and North Carolina, where we got onto
I-26. We finally reached Charleston nine hours after we started.

We made a lot of stops and had to back-track twice in search
of gas stations close to the highway. One of my peeves is getting off the
highway when a sign indicates a certain brand of station at the next exit. Then

once committed to the off ramp, a second sign comes into sight that indicates
the favored brand is a mile or more down a country road. It seems to me that
the highway departments in North Carolina, Mississippi and other states that
permit that form of bait-and-switch advertising are looking out forinterests other than those of the traveling
public.

Once in Charleston, we were delighted to find that our
three-star hotel, the Frances Marion at 387 King Street in the heart of the
Historic District, is charming, comfortable and elegant. I got our huge room
for $85 a night on the Internet service Priceline. That is an excellent rate
for this tourism-heavy time of year.

The hotel was named in honor of the Revolutionary War Hero
nicknamed “The Swamp Fox.” We had a great view from our 11th floor
room. We could see much of Charleston, the nearby campus of the College of
Charleston and the distant, broad Cooper River. The bathroom is tight, but has
a large, tiled walk-in shower and new fixtures.

The Frances Marion is a “grand hotel” built in 1924,
somewhat similar in style to the famous Peabody Hotel (with four or five stars,
depending on rating service) in Memphis. While it does not offer the knockout
luxury of The Peabody, the Frances Marion does have a beautiful lobby and the
amenities one expects in a three-star hotel – fitness center, business center,
room service, concierge, restaurants and a bar. The staff is gracious and
helpful.

We enjoyed an excellent meal at the “Coast” restaurant,
located in a renovated warehouse a block or so away at 39-D John Street (telephone
843-722-8838). The hotel concierge recommended it because the quality of the
fresh fish is unsurpassed in Charleston, the prices reasonable and the décor
and service quite nice. I had flounder stuffed with fresh crab chunks served in
a delicious sauce. Betty had fresh softshelled crabs with bacon-cheese grits.
Many of the fish dishes are cooked over wood.

Exhausted by the long drive and sated by the wonderful meal,
we retired early.

July
12, 2004, Tuesday – In Charleston

Betty got her day going by walking three or four blocks to
the famous Market section of Historic Charleston. She had spent a week in
Charleston 13 years ago while she attended a Johnson and Wales Culinary Academy
course in baking. She knows the downtown layout well and another visit to the
stalls in the roofed, open-air market was among her priorities.

I stayed back at the hotel to check on the condition of our
condo at Gulf Shores, Ala., now that Hurricane Dennis had passed. Our rental

agency was still closed due to the mandatory evacuation of the beach town so I
didn’t learn much. I did find out that some of the main power lines are down
and that the worst of the damage was 50 or more miles to the east near
Pensacola.

Returning to the hotel at 11 a.m., Betty had her arms full
of souvenirs, gifts and other purchases made at the Market. A bellman loaded
our suitcases and several open bags on a cart for temporary storage so we could
check out and visit Fort Sumter. Unfortunately, one of my nearly new boat shoes
had somehow tumbled out of an open bag somewhere in the portage-storage
process. I didn’t notice that it had disappeared until unpacking at our next
destination that night. I made several calls and sent an email to the hotel,
but the shoe never turned up. Nonetheless, I would not hesitate staying at the
Frances Marion again.

We walked about a mile down Calhoun Street (named for the
great South Carolina orator-Senator) to the Fort Sumter Ferry. We passed by
many classic buildings that reminded us of New Orleans – without the grime. We
stopped at a deli to purchase three bottles of water to ward off dehydration on
this very hot day. We also carried out a turkey sandwich for me and a chocolate
croissant for Betty to eat on the hour-long boat ride out to the fort.

The roundtrip excursion fare was $12 each. Tickets are sold
at Charleston’s new, National Park Service Visitor Education Center in the
Charleston Harbor. It is adjacent to the new South Carolina Aquarium.
Thankfully, the visitor center and its small museum are air-conditioned. The
temperature on this sunny day must have been in the upper 90s and the humidity
close to 100 percent. The heat was positively oppressive.

Once the ferryboat got underway, it wasn’t quite so bad. The
boat’s speed created a hot wind that resulted in some evaporative cooling. The
top deck is covered by a canvas awning. A Park Service volunteer tour guide
cautioned the 200 or so tourists aboard about the dangers of dehydration.
Bottled water, soft drinks and hot dogs were sold at reasonable prices.

Betty had ridden the ferry out to Fort Sumter on her visit
in 1992 and had encouraged me to take the ride. While I had joined Betty for a
long weekend following her Johnson and Wales course (when we then drove a

rental car to pick up Casey at a church camp to visit some colleges he was considering in the
Mid-Atlantic states), I hadn’t been to Fort Sumter in a very long time. We have
a picture of me as a lad of about 4 with my grandmother, Bertha Orpha Miller
Nolan, on Fort Sumter about 1947. My parents then lived in nearby Columbia,
S.C., where my brother Patrick Thomas Nolan was born that year.

About all I remember of Columbia is that my parents employed
a very kind and very large African-American woman to take care of me; that she
would push me on a swing but never as high as I wanted to go; and that I was
terribly frightened when my dad took me to a college football game (Clemson
versus Carolina, I think) and the crowd around us chanted “Hit ‘em again, hit
‘em again - harder, harder.” I had feared some poor kid way down in the middle
of the football field action was getting spanked really hard.

Now, more than 55 years later, I was aboard a boat churning
across the Charleston Harbor on the way to historic Fort Sumter, the alpha of
the War Between the States. I mused that if I had lived then, might I have
been among the Southerners chanting “hit ‘em again, harder harder” when the
Confederate cannon pounded the Union force into surrendering the stronghold.

Like many Americans, I have ancestors on both sides of the
Civil War. My mother’s people were from Virginia; one of her grandfathers
served under General Lee in the Dixie Rifles. My father’s people were Yankees
through and through; one of his grandfathers served the Union in the 51st
Wisconsin Volunteers. My sentiments have always leaned toward the South and its
traditional values – although decidedly not with the historic Southern politics
regarding race and the role of government in a just society.

This visit to Fort Sumter was especially meaningful even if
a little out of sequence. The Confederate cannons fired the opening shots of
the Civil War on April 12, 1861. The initial Confederate surrender documents
were signed April 9, 1865 at Appomattox Court House in Virginia, which we
visited last week.

I was reminded of who won America’s deadliest war when I
purchased from the ferryboat concession a Diet Coke made in Atlanta. I paid for

it with a $5 bill bearing the portrait of Abraham Lincoln. Forget about saving
your Confederate money, boys. It’s not even good in the Charleston harbor.

South Carolina seceded from the Union Dec. 23, 1860. At the
time, there were four Federal installations around the strategically and
economically important Charleston Harbor. There was Fort Moultrie on Sullivans
Island, Castle Pinckney on Shute’s Folly Island near the city, Fort Johnson on
James Island across from Moultrie and Fort Sumter at the harbor entrance. The
only fort garrisoned in strength was Fort Moultrie. Six days after the state
seceded, the Federal commander concluded that Moultrie could not be defended so
he secretly transferred his 85 soldiers to Fort Sumter.

South Carolina demanded that the Federals abandon the fort.
President Buchanan refused. Brigadier General Pierre G. T. Beauregard of New
Orleans took command of the Confederate troops at Charleston and accelerated
work on fortifying the harbor. Abraham Lincoln took office as President and by
April 4 dispatched a relief expedition to Fort Sumter. Acting on orders of the
Confederate Secretary of War, Beauregard opened fire. The Federals surrendered
the next day and were allowed to board a ship bound for New York. Miraculously,
no one on either side had been killed during the 34-hour bombardment. But the
long dreaded Civil War was underway.

Both Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie across the harbor
remained in Confederate hands until February,1865 during the closing twilight
of the war.

Union forces had strong land positions around Charleston
and fired rifled Parrot Cannons at Fort Sumter at will for almost two years. An
estimated 46,000 shells – over 7 million pounds of metal – were fired at the
fort, reducing it to rubble within weeks. But the 300 Confederate defenders hid
beneath the piled up, broken bricks and buttressed their position with sand and
bales of cotton. Their cannons were dismounted but they refused to surrender,
returning fire with harmless musketry. Finally, the Rebel forces evacuated the
fort Feb. 17, 1865 in the face of General Sherman’s troops advancing from
Savannah.

Following the Civil War, the U.S. Army attempted to rebuild
a portion of the fort so it could be used if needed for coastal defense. It

served as an non-garrisoned lighthouse station from 1876 until 1897. The gun
platforms rotted away and the cannons turned to rust. There was brief renewal
activity during the Spanish-American War and again during World War I. The
long-neglected ruins of the once-proud and massive fort were briefly manned by
an antiaircraft gun unit during World War II. In 1948, Fort Sumter was
transferred from the War Department to the National Park Service and became a
national monument.

Today, visitors are told by the Park rangers on duty, Fort
Sumter bears only superficial resemblance to the original, multi-tier firing
platform for cannons. It once had a three-story structure with brick walls five
feet thick. Inside the walls were quarters for its defenders, storage for
military supplies and a parade ground for training.

Several of the massive, smooth-bore Columbiad cannons the
defenders used to hurl 300-pound projectiles three miles are on display.
Several of the rifled Parrot Guns the Federals used to accurately fire timed
shells from impregnable emplacements four miles away are also on display. The Parrot guns
instantly made brick forts like Sumter instantly obsolete.

We had only one hour on the sand spit of an island. It
turned out to be a blessing because it was dreadfully hot, especially inside
the wind-protected ramparts of the fort. Fellow tourists escaping the heat
crowded into a small, air-conditioned museum that contains a lot of neat stuff.

We got a fleeting look at the shell-torn American Flag that
flew over the fort during the first Confederate bombardment. The Federal
commander who decamped Fort Sumter in the face of overwhelming bombardment, Maj.
Robert Anderson, returned to symbolically hoist the same flag over the ruins after
the Union Army regained control.

I’d like to return to Fort Sumter in cooler weather someday
and spend more time inspecting the museum’s exhibits and reflecting on their
significance. I found the Park Rangers and volunteer docents to be quite
knowledgeable and eager to answer questions.

The ferryboat ride back to the Visitor Center took only 45
minutes. We picked up another turkey sandwich and a huge green salad at the
same deli as we walked back to the Francis Marion Hotel to retrieve Mustang
Sally and our bags. We ate a late lunch in the car during the easy, two-and-a-half hour drive to
Savannah on U.S. 71 South.